A/N: Check out the author's note at the end for news about this title's future. In the meantime, I want to discuss the inspiration for this issue. This year has taken both Stan Lee and Steve Ditko, the co-creators of Spider-Man. I felt the need, in my own small way, to honor their legacy and greatest creation - so here is a tribute to two of the greatest mythmakers known to humankind.
…
Web of Spider-Man
#11: Fatal Flaw Epilogue
"Excelsior!"
…
Spider-Man rose higher and higher into the sky until it felt like he'd continue ever upward to his death. Adrian Toomes' armored talon dug into his ankle, drawing blood. He thrashed against the old thief's mechanized grip, but made no headway. The buzz of his spider-sense drowned out both the wind's howl and the incessant whirring of Toomes' bargain bin Iron Man armor. It was getting hard to breathe. His vision was fading. He could hardly make out Toomes' winged silhouette against the sun's glare, let alone his wrinkled mug. Nonetheless, he knew the old-timer had a shit-eating grin on his face as he cackled.
"I got you beat. Last warning: stand down, Spider-Man," Toomes said.
"That's a little tough from up here," Spidey grunted back. I don't have time for this!
Spider-Man fired webbing at Toomes' face, but missed by a mile, the line deflected away by a gust of wind. He grimaced beneath his mask. I'm gonna be late!
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Toomes growled.
Then came the drop. Toomes' talon tore free from Spider-Man's leg, causing him to scream. Freefall dragged him kicking and screaming toward the city streets below. Panic overcame his senses. I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die—
Just like Uncle Ben.
A sudden, dark numbness calmed Spider-Man. It had been a week, the longest of his life. A week without him. A week on the job. A week of late nights, spontaneous tears, and never ending lies. He couldn't give up now. He couldn't make this week that much worse for Aunt May.
Spider-Man extended his arms to flatten his fall and slow his descent. This was Queens. There wasn't a skyscraper near him. If he was going to swing, it would be a close call. He might hit the ground before he could land a webline, or hell, it could very well tear. Even if he managed it, the force of the drop might break his arms. That wasn't something he wanted to have to explain to his aunt. What to do, what to do?
That's when it hit him. The idea was ludicrous, like something out of a comic book…but it might just work.
THWIP! Spider-Man shot webbing between his hands, slowly but surely forming a sheet of the sticky substance. Or, more accurately, a parachute. An updraft jerked him up. That was a good sign. He could see for miles. Hell, he could see the rooftop where Toomes had dropped his duffle of cash. Spidey had plenty of room to fall. It was working! It was—
Spider-sense!
"Eat shit!" Toomes ripped through his web parachute with a blade-tipped wing.
To that Spider-Man had one response: "Nice going, genius."
Adrian Toomes was smart enough to build a working (albeit wannabe-Iron Man) jetsuit, but this? This was just plain stupid. By tearing through the webbing, the old thief had gotten his wing stuck with it. Spidey trailed after him by the end of his webline like a paddle ball. With one strong pull, he managed to swing atop Toomes' back.
"Heads up, bird brain," Spidey quipped.
With an anxious spasm, Toomes yelled, "You son of a—"
But it was too late. Spider-Man thwipped a line to his free wing, then pulled back with both hands, sending them plummeting to the ground. As Toomes screamed obscenities, Spidey took care to steer them away from civilians. Or rather, he tried to. They ended up crashing right into oncoming traffic.
Spidey rolled to a halt as cars swerved, honking, around him. Toomes wasn't so lucky. He fell right into the path of an eight-wheeler truck. The driver slammed on his brakes, but it wouldn't stop in time. Wide-eyed, Spider-Man screamed Toomes' name.
The old man took flight.
"Uh…" Spider-Man groaned, at a loss for words. Idiot! I'm an idiot!
Not only had he not acted in time to save Toomes, but he hadn't noticed the man was in good enough shape to fly. He tried to swing after the criminal, but he proved too slow to even get near him. He was forced to watch from a rooftop as Toomes soared off with his cash into the sunset.
Unsurprisingly the furious cries of New Yorkers followed Spider-Man as he swung off, guilt clouding his mind. He'd screwed the pooch. His first real supervillain, and he'd failed entirely. He cost the city, cost innocent people thousands of dollars in damages. He hadn't caught the bad guy.
As if to salt the wound, his web shooters thunked and mid-swing they refused to fire more webbing. They were empty. Spider-Man dropped to a rooftop, cursing quietly to himself. He wouldn't be able to swing to the church. Yep, the worst thing—worse than all of this spider-bullshit—no doubt about it now…
I'm late.
…
"You're late," Harry said, straightening Peter's tie. "And you look like shit. Is this gonna become a thing?"
Truth be told, Harry was absolutely right. Peter looked like shit in more ways than one. Yeah, he'd crumpled his suit by leaving it in his backpack while he fought the Vulture, but far, far worse than that – he was late to his own uncle's funeral. Harry had intercepted him outside the church before his aunt, or anyone else, could.
"I'm trying, Harry," Peter said, "I am, I swear to God."
Harry dusted him off, saying, "I know. I get it, I do." Peter seriously doubted that, but gave no voice to the thought. "This is…I don't know. I don't mean to claim that…" Harry sighed, "It's just your aunt, Pete. May was so—she looked so broken, man. She needs you. She really needs you right now."
"Yeah, I fucking know." Guilt had dragged the words out, not frustration. Peter's heart only grew heavier.
Harry's gaze darkened, but he replied with a chilling calm in his voice, "You've got a bruise under your left eye." Peter reached for his face, self-conscious. "You're limping. Blood's crusted around your sock. You haven't been to school all week. No one's gotten a decent pic yet, but you're the vigilante, aren't you?"
Peter's lack of a response was answer enough.
"Christ, dude, Spider-Man was supposed to be, like, a money thing. An act. It was supposed to be fun! You're not Captain-freaking-America—"
"Back off, Harry—"
"Get yourself together, man. You're acting insane!"
"Harry—"
"Do you want to die?!"
Peter meant to shove Harry back just a foot, to make him stumble, but his push sent him flying into the church doors. Harry's head smacked against the hard wood with a thud. Peter was speechless. His friend stared up at him, dazed eyes focusing into a hot rage.
"Harry, I'm sorry—"
"I don't want to lose my best friend," Harry spat, "Does that make me an asshole?"
The church doors opened before Peter could respond. His aunt May had Anna Watson by her side, their makeup already dripping oil-like down their faces. May looked at him with heartbreaking resignation.
She returned inside without a word.
Peter's mind clouded with a deep white fog. It took Harry's call to drag him back to reality, to force him after his aunt. What awaited Peter inside sent him right back into himself, into the fog, the locked chest unbroken by all. The church was packed.
Faces painfully familiar and utterly unknown stared after him as he moved to sit beside his aunt. Jessica clasped Harry's hand, Alistair offered him a weak smile, and even Cindy Moon had shown up to offer her condolences. After the service, after Peter forced himself through May's eulogy, Cindy approached him and muttered something about an apology. He couldn't hear her over the others, over the same few words, the same bullshit again and again.
"I'm so sorry."
They had nothing to be sorry about. They hadn't killed his uncle.
Peter had.
And by the fragile state of his aunt, he might soon be responsible for her death as well.
…
Peter and his aunt made it through the night without speaking more than a few words to one another at a time. Small talk, that's all they managed. Peter apologized for being late. She forgave him. May commented on how nice it was that so many people came. He agreed. Peter thanked her for doing the eulogy. She said, 'of course.'
He wanted to say more, but Anna Watson never left her side. Maybe that was just an excuse. Maybe—probably—he was a coward, but he couldn't bring himself to so much as say Ben's name until Anna left them be. She mumbled something about "needing to prepare for tomorrow," double checked to make sure May was okay, then crossed the hall to her apartment.
But even when they made it inside, Peter couldn't say anything more. So, May managed a toothless smile then retired to her room.
Peter cried himself to sleep that night.
The next morning, Peter awoke to a familiar smell. He limped into the kitchen only to find May scrambling eggs. She was using garlic, far too much garlic. Ben's stupid recipe. His favorite.
It was like a dam broke.
"Please don't take this the wrong way, but I can't," Peter shook his head. I can't look at you right now. "I'm not going to eat that—I—I'm sorry. I need to go on a walk."
"I'm not mad at you, Peter," May began without looking at him. She struggled to finish the thought, only for Peter to beat her to it.
"Please don't say you're disappointed." He hadn't intended it to sound dismissive, almost quippy, as if he was in the mask, but his aunt's look spoke volumes about his tone. Peter lost control of himself, "Subway broke down. New York public transportation—best in the country, right? Thank you for dry cleaning my suit, by the way. I know it got wrinkled, but, well, you're not exactly a professional. And hey, I can tell what you're thinking. The bruise? I got mugged. Don't worry about it. Guy saw how poor I am and gave me a dollar—"
"What's wrong with you?" May did not scream those words, she did not strike him, yet Peter felt a pain far greater than Toomes had inflicted.
"I killed him." Peter dug his nails into his skin. He fell into a dizzy rave, preventing his aunt from interrupting him. "I saw the guy who—I saw Max Dillon. I saw him. Cops were chasing him, and I—I just let him pass me by. I did nothing to stop him, and…" Peter was sobbing now, delirious, "And Ben died. I killed him." He dry swallowed, steadying himself ever slightly. "I killed Ben."
Silence pervaded the room for what felt like hours before May responded. "So did I. I let him go that night."
Peter shook his head. He tried to stammer out how she was wrong, how it was his fault, how he was just trying to make up for it now, how he didn't want to hurt her, how he never wanted to hurt her…
But all he managed was, "I need to go on a walk."
She didn't chase after him. She didn't call to him as he changed.
May let Peter leave, the door clanking emptily after him.
…
Peter had been on a lot of walks since that night. Swinging wasn't exactly relaxing, and as evidenced by his experience earlier, he couldn't afford to waste any of the web fluid. That said, there was something tragically timeless and painfully cathartic about a walk. Ben loved them to death.
"Bad joke," Peter mumbled, kicking a littered beer bottle. Ben would've laughed. His sense of humor could get crazy dark.
Queens was quiet today. Overcast, solemn, like the whole district was mourning his uncle.
Peter passed block after block, car after car, pedestrian after pedestrian in a dull blur of chilled emotion. He'd made his way halfway down the steps before he realized where he was. This was the subway stop, the place his uncle had died.
He stumbled back up the steps, biting the insides of his cheeks, biting back tears. Ben, what would you do? What the hell is the right thing to do? I'm responsible for May now. I need to help her, not hurt her, but you—what happened to you—no one else should have to go through that. I'm responsible for all those potential victims, too.
Can I be Spider-Man and Peter Parker? Is it even right?
Yet again, his instincts hit him where it hurt. Peter found himself fumbling with his button up, with the costume beneath it. Grimacing, he headed for an alleyway. Maybe he'd think better up top, away from everything. Maybe web swinging would clear his head.
Maybe…
…
Peter sat along the edge of an apartment building, mask in hand. The cool autumn breeze sent ripples through his suit and a shiver down his spine. Nonetheless, he remained still, dark eyes drawn to the Queens skyline. The setting sun crowned the view with red-gold rays. Ben would've loved this.
"Hey, kid, you alright?"
The gruff smoker's voice sent Peter into a panic. An elderly man was eyeing him from a fire escape, his eyes shaded by vintage sunglasses. Peter shot to his feet and managed to pull his mask over half his face before he stumbled over the roof's edge. Thankfully his feet stuck to the wall, keeping him upright. He turned away from the old-timer as he shrugged on the rest of the mask.
"Face front, kid. Take it easy. I'm no snitch," the elderly man said. "You're that Spider-guy, aren't you?"
Peter frowned, but did as he was told. White lenses met with black as he looked the man in the eyes from the side of the building.
"I'm Spider-Man," Peter's voice cracked, "Uh, Spider-Man."
"Sure you are." The elderly man smirked. Then, running a hand through his slicked back hair, said, "You look like you could use some company. Come on inside."
"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," Peter blurted.
"My name's Stan. You're Spider-Man. There, we aren't strangers anymore," the elderly man said.
Peter hesitated. This guy could be a pedophile, a murderer, or worse – a telemarketer. Peter knew absolutely nothing about him. But there was something to this old man, something that put him at ease. He reminded Peter of his uncle Ben.
"You coming, kid?" called Stan, who was already reentering his apartment.
"Yeah, I'm—I'm crawling over. I mean I'm coming," Peter replied, doing just that.
"How d'you like your coffee?"
"Just how I like my women. Hot and black," Peter stammered, dropping onto the fire escape. "I mean—uh. No cream or sugar. Yeah, that—yeah. Black."
Chuckling, the elderly man led Peter inside. "You sure talk a lot, kid."
Stan's apartment was humble but cozy, decorated with images from comic books: Captain America, Iron Man, the works. Peter felt right at home, at least until he locked eyes with the apartment's second occupant. Seated at the dining table, a thin man—about as old as Stan by the looks of him—peered grimly over the rim of his thick spectacles at Peter.
Motioning to the sketchpad in front of him, Peter dumbly said, "Uh, you draw?"
"Don't mind Steve. He's harmless," Stan called from the kitchenette.
As if to emphasize the point, Steve said, "I like your costume. Smart design." Then, without another word, he returned to his sketch.
"Tha—thanks."
Peter collapsed awkwardly onto their couch. A minute or so passed in silence before Stan returned with a steaming mug of coffee. After Peter thanked him for it, Stan leaned against the dining table – drawing a glare from Steve – and jumped right back into the conversation as if no time had passed at all.
"I know that look in your eyes. The grief, the angst, like the weight of the world's on your shoulders. Tell me, Spider-Man: what's wrong?" Stan asked.
Peter rolled his mask up to his nose, and wafted in the smell of coffee. It was a dark brew, Ben's favorite. "I lost someone recently." After a moment, he continued, "I lost my…my dad."
Stan's expression softened. Steve looked up from his drawing. The both of them had genuine concern in their eyes.
"I'm sorry to hear that, kid," Stan said. "Moving forward isn't easy, not ever. Life…life can be tough that way. You just have to keep climbing – ever upward."
Peter snorted, "Yeah, that's not even the half of it. I tried to do something good with my – with all this pain, but I just ended up hurting the people I love. I think I know what my unc—what my dad would want, what I want, but it's…" He couldn't finish the thought. "I don't want to argue with anyone about it. I don't…I don't know what's right."
To that, Steve leaned forward and said, "If you have a certain point of view and reasons that you think are valid, you can only and should onlyexpress those views you honestly have. Even to those you love." He fiddled with his pencil. "That's your right. Your responsibility."
Stan nodded in agreement. "What Steve said. You have to stand up for what you think is right. You have to truly believe in it, because at the end of the day…" Stan settled into a thought for a moment before continuing, "The world is a complicated place, but goodness, moral integrity, there's something concrete there. Something immutable. Maybe I have a simplistic view of things, but…you're going out of your way to help people, right? Even if there's no chance of a reward? Simply because it should or must be done."
Peter considered the question, sipping from his mug. Was it just guilt motivating him? Was it his anger at the world? Or was he really doing it for the right reasons? Did it even matter? He supposed it did. He supposed it had to. So what was his answer…?
"Someone has to do it. I have to do it," Peter realized, "With great power there must also come great responsibility."
A hearty grin flashed across Stan's lips. "'Nuff said."
Filled with a sudden burst of ecstatic energy, Peter hopped up, and pulled his mask down. "Thank you. Thank you so much!"
"Not gonna finish your coffee?" Stan asked.
The remark caught him off guard, stopping him in his tracks. Peter looked down at the mug in his hand. He blushed as red as his mask, though they couldn't see it. "Uh, I, uh—"
"I'm just messing with you, kid. Leave it. We need to get going anyway," Stan assured him. "We're meeting up with a few old friends, and my wife, Joan."
Setting the mug down, Peter mustered a smile and said, "Well, have a great time. And thanks again, both of you."
He trotted toward the fire escape. However, before he could get farther than halfway out the window, Stan called to him.
"Hey, Spider-Man!" When Peter he looked his way, he found both Stan and Steve were smiling. "You're gonna do great, kid. I just know it."
Peter simply nodded, touched beyond words. He crawled outside, then, with the thwip of his webshooters, he swung into the city. A great, booming voice followed him upward, ever upward.
"Excelsior!"
…
To be frank, this was not how Peter expected to meet Iron Man. He hardly made it a block from Stan's apartment before he saw explosions over Stark Tower. He hardly made it to Manhattan before he saw the Iron Avenger fall out of the sky, his suit in shreds.
He hardly made it in time to save him.
When he spotted Iron Man's plummeting form, Peter made a slingshot out of two skyscrapers and his webbing. He launched himself forward, catapulting over whole neighborhoods with strength he heretofore hadn't known he was capable of. He ran across Stark office windows and leaped out to catch Iron Man just a dozen yard above a busy street. With one hand holding the billionaire-hero by the remains of his armor and the other thwipping outa webline, he swung through a crowd of New Yorkers on the sidewalk.
"'Scuse me! Coming through!" he called out.
Civilians leaped out of the way as Peter pulled up and hopped over them onto a rooftop. With great care, he lay Iron Man on the ground. The armored hero wasn't conscious. No, worse, he looked like he might be…
SHWOOM! Stark's arc reactor sparked with a sudden burst of sky-blue energy, defibrillating him. Peter tripped back onto his rear as Iron Man gasped to life. Scrambling up, he hurried to the billionaire's side while civilians crowded around them.
"Shit. Did I just die?" Tony Stark ripped off his helmet's mask and tossed it aside. "Second time this week…"
"Iron Man—I mean, Mr. Stark, er, Tony," Peter stammered, "Are you—"
"The spandex means you're a superhero, right?" Mr. Stark interrupted, speaking a mile a minute. "Go do your thing."
"Uh, what—you mean—?" Peter said.
"Don't have time to play coach, rookie," grumbled Mr. Stark. "Look up."
As if on cue, the top of Stark Tower exploded. Glass rained down into the empty alleyway below while a winged form zoomed inside the forced entrance. Peter frowned beneath his mask.
"Let me guess. The bad guy's a geriatric jerk with a knockoff Iron Man…" Peter shrugged, "Er, 'you' suit."
Mr. Stark frowned, then muttered, "It's a prototype. Mark 12, codenamed Vulture."
Peter jerked back to the billionaire-hero. "Wait, you made his suit?"
"He stole my suit," Stark retorted. "My latest suit. Adrian Toomes is ex-Marines, my ex-bodyguard, worse than a jilted ex—what am I saying? Go!"
"Are you gonna be okay?"
"Not if I'm robbed again! GO!"
Peter took off, swinging across the street to Stark Tower. From there, he crawled up the side of the building. Alarms rang from the top floors. He picked up the pace, rising into a full on sprint. His abs burned as he kept himself upright. You got this, you got this, you got this!
The penthouse suite was in ruins, an image of rubble and fire that evoked the city's most tragic history. Peter froze up, lenses creasing as he tried to make out Toomes through the smoke. He'd outplayed him once already. The only reason Peter had gotten close to winning the fight was because Toomes had made a huge mistake. For God's sake, he'd beaten Iron Man! What the hell was some kid in spandex supposed to do to him?
A blue orb appeared from the darkness. Shrouded in smoke, backlit by fire, Toomes stepped forward with a briefcase in hand, his suit's blue core humming from atop his chest. Peter's heart felt like it was going to burst.
"Spider-Man? Back for round two?" Toomes cackled, his wrinkled visage clear behind his ironglass mask. "You're braver than I thought."
"Anyone ever tell you that you speak in clichés?" It had slipped out, yet Peter couldn't help but grin. Crouching into a three-pronged position, he mustered another quip. "You need new writers, man."
Toomes sneered. "I beat Iron Man. What hope do you have—"
"This is exactly what I'm talking about."
"Shut up!" they both said at once. Peter snorted, "See, I can literally predict what you're going to say."
"Predict this!" Again, they cried out in unison. However, with those last words, Toomes zoomed toward Peter.
However, the teen hero knew it was coming, his head buzzing all the while. Peter flipped over Toomes and fired a webline at his jetpack. Latching on with a thwip, Peter managed to get his footing before Toomes dragged him out of Stark Tower and into the sky.
"And they say you can't teach an old bird new tricks," Peter said. With a great tug, he pulled himself forward.
"How's this for new tricks?" Toomes spun, knocking Peter away before he could land atop his back.
Then came the plummet again, but this time Peter was ready. He prepared his webchute in seconds. His spider-sense alerted him to Toomes' imminent attack. Peter let go of the webbing and let himself fall. In the process, he freed the 'chute to jerk back against the wind, catching Toomes before he could react. The old thief thrashed against the webbing, but that only furthered his entrapment, leaving him to tumble to the ground.
"Looks like you're in a sticky situation," Peter said, swinging onto Stark Tower. Toomes screamed from beneath the web cocoon. "What? They can't all be homeruns."
Peter leaped off the skyscraper and tackled Toomes onto a rooftop. Sirens wailed just blocks away. The fight was won.
Peter had won.
Grinning ear-to-ear, he doubled up Toomes' cocooned restraints and removed the briefcase from inside it. Before he could offer a finishing quip, the whoosh of lowering thrusters caught his attention.
"I believe that belongs to me." Mr. Stark—Iron Man landed beside him in another suit of armor, an older make by the looks of it. He extended his hand, the suit's cool blue slits staring into Peter's lenses.
"Yeah, a 'thank you' would be dope," Peter blurted.
"Hand it over, rookie," Iron Man demanded. "Now."
Peter grimaced, but gave the briefcase up. It turned out Tony Stark really was a dick. "What's in it?"
"It's cute that you think I'd tell you," Iron Man replied. "Are you prepared to sign an NDA?"
"I can't tell if that's a joke or not," Peter muttered.
Iron Man snagged Toomes' cocoon, fired up his thrusters, and hovered off the ground. "Don't get cocky, kid. I could've handled him on my own."
With that said, he flew off toward the roof of Stark Tower, leaving Peter to mumble, "Ego like glass, fit for a you-know-what…"
…
Peter knocked before he entered their apartment, wary to greet May. To his surprise, he found her frantically cleaning the kitchen, on edge. It hadn't looked this clean since they'd moved in. Not for holidays. Not once. May acknowledged his presence with a nod, but wouldn't look up from her work. She adjusted the toaster an inch.
"May, I'm sorry. I—" Peter paused, then just said what was on his mind. "Did I make you go crazy? What is this?"
"It's not you that…" May sighed, then moved the toaster again. "I haven't cracked. I just—we never have guests."
"We're having guests?" Peter said.
"It's a surprise," May admitted.
"A surprise? Who the hell is it, my parents?" The grave light in May's gaze made Peter regret that joke. He walked to her side and stopped her from moving the toaster again. "May, please, I need to talk to you." With a shrug, he added, "Before any surprise guests arrive."
May seemed reluctant to continue, unable to look him in the eyes. "There's nothing to discuss. We were both in…fragile states of mind."
"No, you were…" Peter took a deep breath. "You did nothing wrong. In all of it, you…" He forced himself on, "I need to do things differently. To be more transparent with you. We're all we've got now, and I…" Peter swallowed back tears. Taking her hand, he looked his aunt in the eyes. "I won't leave you, May. I can't. We're going to take care of each other from now on, I promise. I'm going to take care of myself. Of you."
May's eyes flooded with tears, drawing his own in turn. She tried to stammer out a response, but couldn't manage it. Speechless, she hugged him, and he squeezed her tight. Peter knew what he had to do, what he had to say.
"May, there's something I need to tell you…"
The doorbell rang.
Peter silently cursed to himself. Later. He'd tell her everything later. "I'll get it."
May nodded him on, so Peter headed for the door. On his way, he wiped away his tears, and steadied himself. No chance he was gonna embarrass himself in front of some surprise guests. It had to be someone pretty important, right? Something crazy, like the principal or…
What awaited him at the door was beyond his expectations, lofty as they were. What awaited him was a dream come true, almost seven years in the making.
Even without makeup, the girl was gorgeous, confident in her own skin, in her simple black sweater and jeans. Her curly red locks settled right around her shoulders, her dark eyes above Peter's own. She was tall, taller than him by at least an inch. Yet for all her newfound beauty—cocky white smile and all—she was completely and utterly familiar to him.
Peter Parker would recognize Mary Jane Watson anywhere.
"Face it, tiger. You just hit the jackpot."
…
In Loving Memory of Stan and Steve
…
I really hope you liked it. This was spectacularly cathartic to write. Rest In Peace, to two real superheroes.
Good news and bad news, folks. Good news, this won't be the last issue, I promise. Bad news: the hiatus is going to pick up again after this one. I'll return to this story when I'm done with my last Flash volume (currently 2/6 issues in). You can very likely expect the start of the new arc in the next six months – certainly by the release date of Spider-Man: Far From Home. Anyway, sorry about that. But please, drop a review! I'm really curious to hear what people thought of this ish, cliffhanger and all.
Oh, wait…you thought the arrival of MARY JANE WATSON was the ONLY cliffhanger I have for you folks? Haven't you ever seen a Marvel movie? Stay past the credits!
~~Merry Christmas~~
…
It had been a long week for Tony Stark. Maybe the longest since Afghanistan. It ended like it started: with some criminal dumbass blowing up his property and creating apocalyptic press. Recent layoff Adrian Toomes had blown up Tony's fallic super-symbol and attempted to steal his super-secret project. Why? More likely than not, because he'd been hired by someone to do it. That was the truly horrible news.
But before Toomes, Max Dillon had been the source of Tony's headache. That had just been crazy happenstance. The newbie murderer had hidden from the cops in his arc reactor and fallen right into the generator, shutting it down. They hadn't been able to get it back up all week. Tony hadn't been able to get it up all week.
In more ways than one.
"…sir? Did you hear me, sir?"
"Mhm," Tony grumbled, staring into the blue void of the reactor's battery. Without looking at Justin Hammer, P-h-freaking-D, he said, "You want to hire a specialist? I am the specialist. I made the arc reactor."
"Certainly, sir, but, pardon me, you're not the only person in renewable energy," Hammer stammered on, "Perhaps an outsider's perspective could—"
"Fine. Whatever. Do it," Tony grumbled. "Invite Vladimir Putin and Victor von Doom for all I care. Just get it fixed."
"Yes—yes, sir—"
Suddenly, Tony's chest caught fire. There was no actual flame, but the mini-arc reactor in his chest burned like hell. He collapsed to his knees. His ears rang, drowning out Hammer's screams, his own screams.
Tony's chest reactor failed. His heart failed with it.
In perhaps the worst case of dramatic irony in his life—and there were many such cases—the arc reactor, the main reactor, came alive with light and sound. A great blue beam burst into the sky, crackling with electricity. This was unlike anything it had ever done before. And there was something else, something even weirder…
Tony's vision was fading quickly, but he could swear he saw a man's silhouette in that beam.